


The Adventures (and Misadventures) of Lyanna and Tormund, Terrors of Winterfell

by lbswasp



Series: Elegance Cannot Kill a Man [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cute, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everybody Lives, Family, Fighting children, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Injured children, Jealousy, Lyanna and Tormund friendship, Medicinal whiskey, S08E03 The Long Night spoilers, Violence, vaguely 'historically accurate' dancing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-10-20 22:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17631179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbswasp/pseuds/lbswasp
Summary: A collection of one shots about the adventures and misadventures Lyanna Mormont and Tormund Giantsbane get into around Winterfell.These all take place near the end of "Fire and Blood", or just after "Fire and Blood", and I'll probably try and arrange the chapters so they go in chronological order.The romantic relationship in this story is Tormund/Brienne - Lyanna and Tormund are just friends (or more like adoptive family, really).





	1. A Family of Bears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> According to Tyrion, Lyanna had accepted Karsi’s daughters as friends almost immediately.
> 
> If he’d asked Tormund, he’d’ve learned the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written early in season 8 as a “to post in case either Tormund or Lyanna dies”. I honestly hoped I wouldn't need it and I could just post it at the end of the season, but I've just seen S08E03 'The Long Night' and therefore I am posting this through my tears (though my god that was a good death).
> 
> (and how cute were Sansa and Tyrion????)
> 
> It’s set during Chapter 15 of With Fire and Blood. When I saw ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ I realised I’ve made my Tormund way more articulate than show!Tormund, but fuck it. I like him better this way. I couldn’t help but include a milk reference though.

Lyanna hadn’t really made much of Karsi’s daughters at first. She’d nodded to them when they’d been introduced, but then, they’d arrived at the same time as a few lords from somewhere and Lyanna had been all “Lady of Bear Island” at everyone for a few days.

It always made Tormund grin to see the little lass put on her manners. He was sure it would be fucking irritating in anyone else, but watching her look down her nose at men twice her height and sneer them into submission was always fun.

They always seemed to give more supplies, more gold, and more men when she was involved the in the discussions. Tyrion would do the research, slip his notes to Lyanna and Jon, and between the King in the North and the Lady of Bear Island Lord So-and-So and Lady Such-and-Such would swear more to the North than they’d expected to.

But after the flurry of visitors had cooled, Tormund noticed something was...off. The visitors had gone, but the Lady of Bear Island was very much still in attendance.

She would train with Brienne as usual, but then would spend her days with Jon and the rest of the Northern lords, taking part in their meetings and councils. She hadn’t once sought him out to go on an adventure and Tormund missed his Little Bear.

His daughters had both died north of The Wall, and every day he considered himself lucky he’d been able to burn their bodies, as well as that of their mother. He didn’t want to think how hard it would be to face their corpses in battle, and the dreams of ‘what if’ would sometimes send him scrambling to Winterfell’s ramparts at night, hoping the cold and the company of the guards would keep the nightmares away.

More often than not, Jon Snow was up there too. It was easier to be quiet in the dark, somehow, and Jon had smiled understandingly at Tormund’s panicked eyes and simply handed him a flask before turning to look out into the dark. 

It had become a ritual between the two of them — a flask, and silently watching the dark fade into light, hoping that the dark times ahead would likewise end.

His daughters were dead and weren’t going to rise again, and their spirits seemed to be alive and well in Lyanna.

But she hadn’t been around as much recently, and he missed her. He missed her conversations, and her explanations of things, and the stories she told him. Stories that she’d been raised on about how Northern men and women loved and lost and lived and died. 

(If he was mentally taking notes from some of them on how he could maybe approach his beauty more successfully, well, that was for him to know. She hadn’t been impressed with the way he ate bread. Or drank his ale. Or his tales of suckling at a giant’s teat. He was running out of ideas.)

He missed showing her things in return of how to live in the far North. How to start a fire in the snow with only a damp log, how to make campfire bread, and how to skin and spit a rabbit. Telling her the stories and legends of his own people and teaching her to sing their songs. They may not live North of The Wall any more, but the Free Folk were still a proud people and he wanted to share their culture. He’d been glad when Karsi’s daughters had arrived, as he was sure there were games and songs and rhymes and secret knowledge only known by little girls, and he’d wanted his Little Bear to learn them as well.

But when he’d swung Brigette and Otilia into his arms with a shout of greeting, his Little Bear had disappeared into thin air.

Later, when he’d deliberately tried to introduce them to her, she’d done nothing more than nod and turn away. In the days since he’d barely seen her — he’d been busy those first few days, showing the girls around the castle and teaching them how Southerners did things.

(The Free Folk used knives for eating, and drank soup directly from their bowls. The Southern lords and ladies used more cutlery and frowned at drinking straight from the bowls, and it had taken Davos quietly pulling Tormund and the others aside and teaching them how the kneelers used things to make dinners less awkward. Brienne had even smiled at him once when he’d used a spoon instead of drinking straight from his bowl. Her smile had made him hard enough to pound nails with his cock.)

He’d gone looking for his Little Bear this morning — he’d heard rumours of a blackberry patch an hour or so’s ride away — and thought she might enjoy the trip. But when he’d finally tracked her down, she’d spat some excuse of having a meeting and stalked off.

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, and had taken the girls with him instead. They’d come back with baskets overflowing with blackberries and the resulting pies had been a delicious treat — though he’d noticed his Little Bear hadn’t had her slice, instead slipping it to Ghost.

He’d put his Little Bear’s behaviour out of his mind for a few days — he’d noticed that Otilia’s cloak was getting too short around her ankles since she’d shot up nearly a foot since they’d left Hardhome, and he’d taken her and her sister out to capture some rabbits to make her a new one. He taught the girls how to catch the rabbits, and skin them, and preserve the skins and sew them into a nice new cloak. He’d made Otilia’s, since her little hands were too small to properly use the awl, but Brigette had made her own (with his guidance). He was proud as punch of the two girls, and had made sure everyone they came across knew how the girls had gotten their nice new cloaks.

It had only made Little Bear glare.

A few days later, he’d tried again. A small snowfall had covered Winterfell in a foot or so of soft, powdery snow, and he and the girls were keen to make snow sculptures in the godswood, where the snow was undisturbed. He’d thought maybe Lyanna would want to join them, but she’d brushed him off, even when some of the other children in the castle had joined in. Later that day he thought he’d seen her hiding in the shadows, watching the children competed to make all sorts of animals from the snow, but she hadn’t said anything or come to visit, and he thought maybe it was a trick of the light.

Still, he could tell she was upset, for all he didn’t see much of her lately. He and Davos had found common ground in carving, and he’d made Lyanna a roaring bear, like the one on her cloaks.

But when he’d tried to give it to her, she’d snarled something about not being a child, and had thrown it to the ground. He’d wondered at that point if she’d started her courses — she’d be on the young side for it, but it was known to happen. He decided to give her space for a few days. Hopefully she’d come around soon enough. He busied himself with Otilia and Brigette, and hoped his Little Bear would feel better soon.

It had all come to a head several days later. He’d been passing through a courtyard where Brienne was giving a weapon’s lesson to all three girls. Lyanna and Otilia had been sparring under Brienne’s watchful eye, and Otilia had waved at him. He’d waved back and pulled a funny face to make her laugh, when suddenly with a shriek Lyanna had thrown away her practise sword and leapt at Otilia, knocking the smaller girl down and striking her with angry fists. Brigette had thrown herself into the fray and pulled Lyanna off her younger sister, and Lyanna had turned and bit Brigette’s hand. Brigette had screamed in rage and pain and rammed her head into Lyanna’s face. Lyanna’s hands had curled into claws and gone for the other girl’s eyes. Brigette tackled Lyanna to the ground, and Lyanna had twisted like an eel to grab Brigette’s hair and shove the other girl’s face into a pile of dirty snow. Brigette had come up swinging, and then the two girls were a ball of kicking, scratching, biting, howling rage, and it took the adults in the courtyard way too long to stop staring and try to pull the girls apart.

Brienne was the first to reach them, and pulled Otilia free from the range of the flailing limbs of the other two, looking aghast at the bleeding from the back of Otilia’s head. One of the wildlings tore off his shirt and folded it into a pad for Brienne, who took it with a nod and pressed it to the back of Otilia’s head before carefully lifting the girl and hurrying away, presumably to find the Maester. Karsi came at a run, and between Karsi, Tormund, and some of the others they eventually they got the two girls separated — though not before each adult gained at least a few bumps, bruises, and bites from the screaming girls.

Eventually, they got them apart, Karsi holding Brigette and Tormund having to use more strength than he’d expected to keep Lyanna still. 

“ENOUGH!” roared Karsi. “Brigette, Lyanna — what has gotten into you?”

“She started it,” whined Brigette, and Lyanna growled and leapt for her. Tormund swung her in the air to try and arrest her movement forward, and his Little Bear’s heel connected with his upper thigh in such a way that he was sure she’d been aiming for something else.

“And I am finishing it! We are allies, children! There will be no more of this fighting, do you understand? No more!”

Brigette was drooping under her mother’s stern words, but Lyanna simply stared at the woman with hate clear in her eyes and spat in Karsi’s face.

Karsi wiped the spit off with clenched teeth and glared at Tormund. “Fix it.”

“Me? What did I do?”

Ignoring him, she turned and took Brigette with her from the courtyard, leaving Tormund holding his Little Bear, still fighting to get free. He heaved her up and over his shoulder, grateful that her legs were too short to kick him in the cock and her arms too short to punch him in the kidneys, and staggered off in the opposite direction. He wasn’t used to carrying something that fought so ferociously — even his late wife hadn’t done more than play at trying to escape when he’d stolen her.

* * *

Eventually, they reached the quiet of the godswood, and Tormund made for the heart tree at the middle of it. He dumped Lyanna — still struggling and swearing — from his shoulder and held his fist above her. As expected, she surged to her feet then smacked her head on the underside of his fist hard enough that she staggered and fell back on her arse, blinking at him.

Sighing, Tormund crouched down in front of her, and started to inspect her injuries.

“By the Gods, Little Bear, what has gotten into you? Why did you attack Otilia like that? She’s only a baby.”

Lyanna’s face screwed up into a scowl and her muscles clenched as if she was going to try and run away or fight some more, and Tormund leaned forward, using his hands and weight to keep her sitting.

“I — she — you —” were as much as Lyanna was able to choke out before she started to cry, fat tears running down her cheeks. Tormund thought they were maybe fake, but after a few breaths realised they were real. His Little Bear was crying so hard she was making herself red in the face. He reached to pull her in close as she hiccoughed, and her arms flailed at his chest for a few pathetic strikes before she gave up the fight and started to wail in earnest, clinging to him like he was the only safe thing in her world.

By the time her cries had softened to snuffles, he’d gotten them shifted around so his back was leaning against the heart tree and he was cradling Lyanna in his arms, gently rubbing her back and humming an old song he’d used to sing his daughters to sleep, back when they were even smaller than his Little Bear.

Eventually, her snuffles turned into sniffs, and he gently reached down to pull her face up. Her face was blotchy, her eyes swollen with the crying, and her snot was everywhere. Spending time with Otilia who was young enough that she still magically got covered in a sticky substance at least once a day had taught him to be somewhat prepared, and so with only a bit of juggling he was able to reach into one of his pockets and pull out a cloth for Lyanna. He placed it to her nose and softly ordered her to blow, and she did, several times, until her breathing sounded better.

He dropped the used cloth beside them, and pulled her back into a hug, quietly singing again.

“I’m sorry about your jerkin,” she said after he let his song fade away.

“My jerkin?”

She pulled back and waved at it. “I got it all...icky.”

He looked down and shrugged. “It’ll dry, or freeze, and brush right off. What won’t brush off is what you did today.”

She hung her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, I just got...got so angry.”

“At Otilia?”

“At _you_!” she snapped, and Tormund drew his head back so fast it knocked against the tree.

“Me?”

“At all of you! They already have a mother — they don’t need a father as well! You were mine, and then they were here, and now they are taking you away!” With that, Lyanna threw her face into his chest and started sobbing again. “You’re going to go away an’ you won’t come baaaaaaack!” she wailed.

“Little Bear...oh, Little Bear,” he said, starting to understand, and held her close, humming once again.

“They all left,” she hiccoughed. “Mother, an’ Dacey, an’ Alysane, an’ Lyra, an’ Jorelle. They all said they would come back, but they never came back, and I was all alone, and then I had you, but now you are going to leave and never come back just like them!”

 _Fuck. I’m a fucking fool,_ he castigated himself. He’d bloody well _asked_ , when she’d first started following him around. He’d checked with Jon and Davos and Tyrion and they’d all said she was the last of her line. He just hadn’t really thought what that had meant, until now. She always seemed so...composed. Calm. Mature.

But she was only a little thing, really. Barely ten-and-one.

She finished in another wail and coughed, the effort of all that crying clearly tiring her out. He fished about in his pocket for another cloth, and held it for her to blow again.

She grabbed it with a glare at him. “‘m not a child!”

 _Aye, but you’re acting like one,_ he thought, but through a heroic effort didn’t say out loud.

“I’m not saying you are,” he said in a low voice. “But blow again.”

She did so, and he fished into another pocket for his flask. He pulled the cork out and offered it to her. “Just a sip, mind. You’ve nearly cried out every bit of water in you.”

Still snuffling slightly, Lyanna did as she was bid, and then immediately spat the liquid to the side. “Gods! That’s awful.”

“It’s whiskey. It’ll put hairs on your chest.”

“I don’t want hairs on my chest! I’m a girl.”

“No you’re not, you’re a bear!” he growled at her, and through her last remaining tears Lyanna managed a pained grin.

“Little Bear,” he sighed, putting his hand under her child and lifting her head so she was looking him in the eyes. “Oh, Little Bear. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can! I haven’t died yet, and I’ve faced these bastards before. And knowing that when I go out to fight them, I go to protect my family...I’m going to fight harder than ever before.”

He felt Lyanna stiffen and try and pull away, and hugged her close before she could.

“Little Bear...Brigette and Otilia aren’t my family. I’ve known them since they were tiny, but they aren’t my family. _You’re_ my family.”

“But...we’re not related?”

“Blood isn’t everything, Little Bear. This is where us Free Folk are better than you kneelers — if we don’t like the clan we’re born into, we’re free to go and get ourselves a new clan that suits us better. A new family — one we make ourselves. Course, this is how you get bastards like the Thenns —”

“Fucking Thenns,” muttered Lyanna and Tormund chuckled.

“Aye, fucking Thenns, good lass. Your blood is your blood, but your family — that’s up to you.” He ducked his head so he was looking in her eyes again. “And I’d be honoured if you were to be my family.”

“Really?”

“Really. I mean, I’ll have to teach you how to throw a proper punch, and you’ll have to apologise to Karsi and her girls, but if you’ll have me, I’d be your family.”

“All my family are gone,” she said softly, and Tormund felt his heart hurt.

“All the better for you to get a new family.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Little Bear, I already think of you as my family. I thought you did too.”

“I just thought you were being nice.”

“Nice? I’m a ferocious wildling! I’m not nice!” he protested, and she giggled at him. He smiled back at her, and asked “So, Little Bear, what of it? Family?”

She looked at him a long time, and he tried to look as encouraging as he could. Eventually she nodded. “Aye. Family.”

“Since you Southern folk put so much store in blood -” he pulled the knife from his belt and nicked his thumb, a bright red drop of blood welling up. He offered the knife to Lyanna who did the same, and he pressed their bleeding thumbs together.

“There,” he said. “We’re blood now, as well as family. You can’t take it back.” He stuck his thumb in his mouth to stop the bleeding and hummed. “Yes, I can definitely taste more bear in my blood now.”

“No, you can’t,” said Lyanna around her own thumb. “There aren’t actually any bears in the Mormont family.”

“We could change that,” he said, inspecting his thumb and happy that the bleeding had stopped. 

“You’re not actually going to fuck a bear, are you?” she asked, her Lady of Bear Island voice clear even around her cut thumb. Tormund gently eased it out of her mouth and checked that the bleeding had indeed stopped.

“Not this time,” said Tormund. “But we could maybe find you a bear cub to raise.”

“A bear cub?”

He shrugged. “Why not? The Starks have their direwolves. Us bears should have a bear.”

Her face lit up with glee, and Tormund pulled her in close. The little family sat under the heart tree for a good while longer, discussing how in fact one would go about finding a bear cub and raising it as their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember still having some pretty damn intense tantrums past the age of 10 (um, heck, past the age of 20) that weren’t called tantrums only due to my age. I figure Lyanna has been dealing with so much that it was about time her emotions boiled past her Lady of Bear Island mask, and I hope she didn’t come off as too immature here.
> 
> The fight between Brigette and Lyanna may or may not have been based off a fight I was in at middle school. It involved nails sharpened into points and people’s heads being rammed into lockers. Pre-teen girls are feral, yo.
> 
> Needless to say, there's no way I'm killing Lyanna in my story. Ever. Other than of old age. In her bed. Surrounded by bears.
> 
> Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go and cry some more.


	2. A Dance of Bears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Lady Waynwood insists that the children at Winterfell should have lessons to fill their days, Tormund asks Lyanna to teach him as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set after they have taken back Winterfell and Jon has been crowned King in the North, but before he sets off for Dragonstone.
> 
> In the books, one of Tormund’s titles is “Mead King of Ruddy Hall”, so I’ve borrowed that.
> 
> Lavolta (literally: the turning) is more of an Elizabethan dance than a medieval one, but it’s closer to the faux-medieval time period of the Game of Thrones than the waltz is, so I’m going with it. Also, it’s pretty cute: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wq4y4nQqXpw

“We are facing war, Lady Waynwood,” said Jon. “Is now really the time?”

“And what happens until we win that war?” asked the old woman. “Do we put everything on hold? Sit here and stagnate? Or should we continue with our traditions, as best we can, until the world ceases to spin?”

Jon sighed. “I just don’t see how it’s relevant.”

“Of course you don’t, Your Grace,” said Lady Waynwood, “as you never got this education yourself. Why would you? You weren’t to manage a castle, or marry for the good of your family. You learned to fight, and your time in the Night’s Watch has taught you to command, and some basics of tactics and strategy. But see sense, Your Grace. You have a number of young lords and ladies stationed here; children who have little to do outside of their arms training. Why not expand their training to include the more standard curriculum offered to noble children? We certainly have enough people here who could teach them any number of subjects and skills, from basic reading, writing, and figuring to the more difficult subjects of herb-craft or foreign languages, as well as how to prepare and defend a castle through an attack or seige, as well as a firm grounding in tactics and strategy. While I can agree there is little need for elaborate embroidery, learning how to sew and mend clothing is certainly useful as we prepare for war.”

Tyrion noticed that Jon looked rather thoughtful, and seemingly Lady Waynwood could see it too as the Valewoman began to really press her case. “Your Grace, if we lose, we have nothing left anyway. But if we win — _when_ we win — the noble children of the North and the Vale will still need to find marriages, most likely outside of these kingdoms. We will still need to send our children to become Maesters and Septas and Septons, and all of these things require the basic education that is taught in all of the castles across the Seven Kingdoms. Charm and elegance may not be able to kill wildlings, but they are weapons nonetheless. By the Seven, Your Grace, you cannot expect the Lady of Bear Island to remain ten years old forever! She is going to grow up and she is going to marry; she needs to know these things as well as any other girl her age. Same with Lord Umber and Lady Karstark, not to mention your own brother Rickon. The children are running wild, Your Grace, and it would do them well to have some structure in their lives.”

Jon looked to Tyrion, who nodded, thinking of the charm and elegance he’d seen wielded by his sister, his wife, and the Tyrells. “I agree, Your Grace. The children are becoming a concern. When they aren't causing trouble they are getting underfoot. Having lessons for them will give them structure and something to do outside their weapons training, and what Lady Waynwood says is true. There are skills our children will need once this war is over, and we'd be doing them a disservice to neglect their education. Besides, we can also include lessons in woodcraft and how to manage a castle and an army at war. Tactics and strategy and all that.”

Jon sighed. “Very well, Lady Waynwood. You may establish lessons for the young people in this castle. Lord Tyrion will help you decide what subjects should be included, and who the instructors will be. On two conditions, however,” he said, and Lady Waynwood nodded. “Firstly, the preparations for the war to come take priority. Arms training and helping to build up supplies remain paramount, for both instructors and their charges. And secondly, you will teach these subjects to all children in Winterfell and the surrounds, whether they are of noble or common birth. That includes the wildlings.”

Lady Waynwood looked as if she might object, and Jon smiled one of his rare smiles. “You will teach them all, Lady Waynwood, or you will teach none. Which is it to be?”

* * *

“But I don’t want to learn dancing!” complained Lyanna to Brienne as the tall woman helped her with her sword technique. “I want to learn to fight and defend myself! Besides, I already know the Basse Dance, and at least two Circle Dances! That’s enough, surely.”

Brienne swatted Lyanna’s sword aside. “Focus, Lyanna. Hold your sword firmer — my grandmother, The Warrior rest her soul, could disarm you right now.”

Lyanna frowned, but did as she was told, and for the next few minutes the only sounds that could be heard was the clack of the training swords and the occasional huff of breath.

Eventually, Brienne called a halt to their lesson and the two women sat on a trestle sipping from their water flasks.

“I quite liked dancing when I was younger,” said Brienne. “To me it felt a lot like fighting. In fact, the swordsmen of Braavos are called Water Dancers, because of the flowing and beautiful way they move.”

Lyanna looked unconvinced, and Brienne continued to speak. “Both fighting and dancing require you to know where the other people around you are, as well to have great control over your own body and movements.”

“At least with a sword you get to hit people,” grumbled Lyanna.

“I think you’re vastly underestimating the amount of damage you can do by treading on a man’s foot at just the wrong time,” said Brienne with a smile. “Some of them make the most entertaining noises, particularly if you put a bit of force behind it.”

“Yes, but...how is it useful to me? Now? When we are facing monsters from legends?”

“Because this war isn’t going to last forever, Lyanna. Either we will lose, and life as we know it will end, or we will win. In which case, life as we know it will continue. Which means that you, as the Lady of Bear Island, will need to know how to dance.”

“No I won’t.”

“I’m afraid you will. Even I had to learn how to dance, and I can assure you that I was as ugly and ungainly as any child has ever been.”

“You? But you’re splendid!”

Brienne laughed. “Hardly, Lyanna. Why, my second betrothed called off our arrangement because I was too ugly.”

“How-how dare he?”

Brienne shrugged. 

“Is he still alive?”

“Last I heard.”

“He doesn’t deserve to live.”

“He was a child, Lyanna, and as cruel and thoughtless as children can be. I hope that time has taught him the error of his ways.”

“And if it hasn’t?”

“Then maybe one day the Maiden will be kind, and we will meet again, and this time I shall dump him in the mud like I did my third betrothed.”

“Your third?”

“He demanded that I act like a ‘proper woman’ once we were wed. I told him that I would only accept such a demand from a man who could beat me in combat.”

“What happened?” asked Lyanna, her eyes wide.

Brienne smiled. “I gave him three broken ribs to remember our broken betrothal by.”

“What happened then?”

“What happened then was that I told my father the whole thing was ridiculous, and I would never marry, because no man would ever be as kind to me as Renly Baratheon.”

“Lord Renly? King Robert’s brother?”

“The one and the same. Lord Renly had come to Tarth as part of his lord’s progress to mark his coming of age shortly after the breaking of my second betrothal. Still smarting from the words of Ser Connington, I wanted to hide in my rooms and avoid Lord Renly and his entourage. My father wouldn’t have it though, and dragged me out.”

Lyanna’s eyes were wide. This was the most she’d ever heard Brienne say all at once!

“In the end, I was glad he did. Lord Renly was...perfect. His green jerkin matched his eyes, and his hair was black and touching his shoulder with only the slightest of curls. He showed me every courtesy, as if I was a proper maid, and pretty. He even danced with me, and in his arms I felt...graceful. Graceful in a way I’d never felt outside the practice yards. It felt like my feet were floating across the floor, and I never wanted the dance to end,” she said, a soft smile on her face. 

“From that day forth, I wanted only to be close to Lord Renly, to serve him and protect him. When my third betrothal was broken, I told my father enough. He was never going to marry me off, and I would seek my own way in the world. So I left Tarth and sought out Lord Renly. He was betrothed to Margaery Tyrell by then, and was older and even more beautiful than when I’d first seen him. But he was still perfect and wonderful and kind, and he remembered how much I’d enjoyed dancing with him. So we danced a few more times, and with Renly leading by example, several of his nobles would dance with me sometimes. It was a wonderful time. I do so love to dance,” she finished, looking off into the distance.

Neither Lyanna nor Brienne were aware that Tormund Giantsbane was behind them, listening to their conversation, and plotting how he could learn to dance so his magnificent love would dance with him.

* * *

“And one, two, three, _one_ , two, three, skip, one, two, three, one, _two_ , three, hop!”

“Little bear, what are you doing?” asked Tormund as he came across Lyanna clapping her hands together while she waited for him outside the stables.

“Trying to remember the rhythm of this dance,” she answered him, following him in to help tack up their horses. “Lady Waynwood says that as I’ve mastered the basics, it’s time for me to tackle some of the more complex Circle Dances they dance in the Vale, and it’s _hard_. Just when you think you’ve got the rhythm right it changes, and then you change directions, and there’s all these hops, and just….argh!” she finished, leaning her head on her pony in despair.

“Sounds complicated.”

“It is! What are your dances like, North of the Wall?”

“We don’t really have complicated dances like you do here in the south. Ours are more...stompy.”

“But Brigette is so good!”

“Karsi’s Brigette?”

“Yeah!” said Lyanna as they mounted up and left the stables for that day’s adventure. “Jon told Lady Waynwood she could only teach us nobles if she taught everyone else as well. Most of the Free Folk children are still learning to read and write, but some of them have joined us for other classes too. Brigette is very good at dancing, and Rickon is surprisingly good at sewing.”

“Surely Rickon’s too old for lessons with you lot. And I’d hardly call him one of the Free Folk.”

“Aye,” said Lyanna, “He should be too old. But after all those years on Skagos, he can barely remember _anything_ his Maester taught him when he was young. So he’s learning alongside us. Lady Waynwood says his manners are _terrible_ , but what do you expect? He spent the last few years among cannibals.”

“I thought the littlest Stark was with the Umbers?” Tormund had been helping Karsi settle issues amongst the various clans that had settled in The Gift for the past few weeks, and had seemingly missed a lot while he was away.

“They went there, but the Greatjon sent them to Skagos for safety, not trusting his own men. Once he was dead, the Smalljon immediately sent for Rickon and betrayed him to Ramsey, so...” she shrugged.

Tormund shook his head. The allegiances and betrayals of the Kneelers continued to confuse him. Apparently the further south you went, the more confusing and complicated the whole thing was, and Tormund wished fervently to never go south of the Stark Kingdom. 

He much preferred the Free Folk way of doing things. You kept to yourself, and if you had to treat with others, you kept your word until the task was done. Then it was over, and each clan could go their different ways. 

Apart from the Thenns. Fucking Thenns. 

They continued on, riding through the woods and checking the traps Lyanna’d set the day before in anticipation of his return. Tormund was proud of her work, and wasn't quiet about telling his little bear so. The traps had caught a few rabbits, but Tormund insisted that they let two of them go.

“They’re mothers, see? You can see they’re pregnant. If we kill these ones, we kill their children, and that means less rabbits in future. At this time of the year, it’s best to just take the bucks and let the mothers go free.”

Eventually, the weak winter light began to fade, and they turned back to Winterfell. 

“Come on,” urged Lyanna. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Are you that desperate to eat rabbit?” 

“No, tonight after dinner Lord Tyrion and Ser Davos are going to talk about the Battle of Blackwater. How often will we get the chance to hear two men talk about how the commanded armies on different sides of a battle like that?”

Tormund spurred his horse on as well while Lyanna explained that alongside the formal lessons led by Lady Waynwood, after dinner once a week the various battle-scarred commanders that were at Winterfell talked through different fights they’d been in. They used maps, when they were available, or else used the lees of their wine to sketch out a rough diagram of the land, and small wooden figures to demonstrate how the fighters had moved. Tormund found the idea fascinating — for all he’d always thought of the Kneelers as one bunch of men, he was starting to learn that there were differences in how they thought, and how they commanded their armies. 

Tormund silently vowed to attend every single one — for although the Kneelers may be allies now, he wasn't naive enough to believe that they’d be allies always.

* * *

A few weeks later heavy snows had started to fall, and Lyanna was restricted to Winterfell. The other children were out with Lord Snow and Lord Glover learning how to survive outside in such weather. They were due to be out for a few days and even Brienne had gone with them, wanting Pod to get some experience in building snow huts and shooting winter game. 

Lyanna, however, was stuck in Winterfell, grounded after pulling a prank involving some of the grain stored for the coming winter. She’d been caught before she could do any actual damage, but still. The whole thing was embarrassing and not becoming of the Lady of Bear Island. 

(Although Lyanna was mature beyond her years, she was still just ten years of age, and sometimes, she made stupid decisions. She’d been asked if anyone else had been in on the prank with her but had steadfastly refused to name names.)

To impart to her how serious it was to mess with grain supplies when winter was coming, she’d been grounded, and had to help Maester Wolkan with a stocktake of the grain they had collected to make sure she really hadn’t damaged any of it.

It was stuffy, dusty work, even in the middle of winter, and they could only work during the daylight hours as the risk of fire from the dust in the air was far too high for them to use torches once the sun set.

So Lyanna was bored, and her nose still itched hours after she’d left the granary, and it wasn’t her idea to pull that prank and it wasn’t fair that she was being punished for it alone! She stomped her foot and glared out the window in the direction the others had ridden at first light that morning.

“Come now, little bear, surely it isn’t that bad?” came a voice from behind her and Lyanna spun around.

“Tormund? What are you still doing here? I thought you’d gone with the others!”

“And leave you all on your lonesome? You’d’ve burned the place down or set off to battle the Night King on your own. No, I went to help them get settled, to show them how us Free Folk build shelter in the snow, but then I came back.”

Lyanna seized him in a fierce hug, her pointy chin digging into his stomach and making him wince. “I wish I was there, learning how to build a shelter like you do in the snow.”

Tormund got a crafty look on his face. “Well now, little bear, that could be arranged.”

“How?” asked Lyanna as they started to walk through the hallways. “I’m restricted to Winterfell.”

“Aye, you are, but Winterfell is large, little bear. And there’s no rule saying you have to stay inside Winterfell, just that you have to be within Winterfell.”

Lyanna squinted at him, puzzled. “You’re being more obtuse than usual. It doesn’t suit you.”

Tormund reached out to ruffle her hair and she dodged his hand with a scowl. “And here I thought you were smart. Winterfell isn’t just the inside bits, is it? The gardens, the courtyards, the godswood...they all count as Winterfell. You can still be in Winterfell, yet not have a roof over your head.”

“You mean...you could show me how to make a snow shelter? And I could sleep out in it?”

“Aye, you could. But if I’m to do you this favour, I want one in return.”

They drew to a stop, and Lyanna turned to face him, her Serious Lady face on. “If it is within my power, Tormund Giantsbane of Ruddy Hall, then the Lady of Bear Island would be honoured to do it.”

Tormund looked around to make sure they were alone, and dropped to one knee in front of Lyanna. “Could the Lady of Bear Island teach the Mead-King of Ruddy Hall how to dance?”

* * *

“Here.” Lyanna thrust the broom-and-thing at Tormund as the young musician shuffled his feet in the background.

“What is it?”

“It’s a broom, with some ‘arms’ stuck on. For you to practice with.”

“I thought I’d be practicing with you?”

“For the Circle Dances we can. But I thought you might like to dance The Turning, and I’m too short to be your partner for that.”

“The Turning?”

“It’s a dance for partners. A bit old fashioned now, but it was very popular a few years back. Renly Baratheon in particular liked to dance it.”

Lyanna paused to give Tormund a knowing look, and he blushed slightly, fidgeting with the broom.

“Do you know everything that goes on here in Winterfell?” he asked into his beard.

“If it’s important, yes. Now, apparently Renly favoured this dance so much that he showed it off everywhere he went on his lord’s progress, according to Lady Belmore,” said Lyanna. “She danced it with him when he visited Strongsong. It caused a bit of a scandal, apparently, with her just married to Lord Benedar, but Lady Belmore assures me it was worth it. Since then, she’s insisted that it be danced at Strongsong, and has ensured that musicians trained at Strongsong be able to perform it.”

She gestured to the young musician, clutching his lute and staring at the floor. “Young Bael here knows it. He’s just finished his apprenticeship in Strongsong, and came north with Lady Belmore as a journeyman. He’s willing to play music for us, and talk you through The Turning, in exchange for you teaching him some of the songs of the Free Folk.”

Tormund eyed the young boy sceptically. “Bael, is it? D’you know the story of the bard you’re named after?”

“No-no, my lord,” said the boy, his voice low and lovely. “I don’t know the story.”

Tormund grunted. “‘M not a lord. The man was a King-Beyond-The-Wall, one of the greatest raiders the Free Folk have ever known, and sired a Stark, and yet you don’t sing of him? You should. You will.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Still not a lord.”

* * *

Brienne was puzzled as she walked down the hallways looking for Lyanna. She’d been worried that the punishment of having to stay behind would have been too hard for the girl. It was just a prank, after all. No one was hurt.

She didn’t like to admit it, but Brienne was very, very fond of Lady Lyanna. She was a terror, and could be as hard and as uncompromising as a blizzard, but underneath it all she was a sweet, incredibly clever young lady.

It also helped that her mother and older sisters had been known for their skills with arms, so the Lady of Bear Island didn’t think twice about a woman taking up the sword to defend herself and her people.

Now if only Lady Lyanna would grow a bit more so she could actually wield the sword her mother had left her, things would be much better. Lady Lyanna remained stubbornly small, however. It made it particularly humorous to see her with Tormund, who fair towered over her, but doted on her as if she was his own child.

 _It was rather sweet to see them together,_ mused Brienne. 

“No, Tormund, not like that!”

“I’m trying, little bear, but it’s hard!”

“You nearly threw me into the ceiling!”

“You’re too damned small, that’s why!”

 _Ah,_ though Brienne. _I’ve found my quarry._ She heard music coming through the open doorway to her right, and froze as she crossed the lintel.

Tormund and Lyanna were dancing. Or, well, trying to dance. The mismatch between their sizes clearly made it difficult, and after another attempt at which Lyanna had to take giant steps to try and keep up with Tormund and Tormund nearly fell over trying to turn in a small enough circle for Lyanna to keep up with him, Brienne found herself hard pressed not to laugh out loud.

Looking at the journeyman bard who was focusing far too much on his lute for the simplicity of the tune he was playing, she gathered that this wasn’t the first time this comic sight had occurred.

“You need to grow bigger!”

“I’m trying, but until that happens, you need to find a taller dance partner!”

“I’m a taller dance partner.”

It was only when the other three turned to face her that Brienne realised she was the one who had spoken. She took a deep breath, then moved into the room. “I can dance, I promise.”

“I believe you, my lady,” said Tormund. He looked at Lyanna who nodded, and gave him a small shove towards Brienne.

He straightened his tunic and ran a hurried hand over his hair in an attempt to flatten it. “There’s a proper way to do this, isn’t there?” he said, seemingly to himself.

He reached where Brienne was standing, frozen just inside the door, and bowed deeply, extending his hand with a flourish. “Lady Tarth. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me in this dance?” His voice was careful, and precise, and lacked the burr she’d started to find comforting.

“Lord Giantsbane, I would be delighted,” she said, giving him a matching title. “As long as you drop that voice and talk as yourself.” 

He grinned at her, and drew her into the room. Lyanna moved to stand beside the bard, and Tormund looked at Brienne, nerves visible in his eyes.

“Lady Tarth, do you by any chance know how to dance The Turning?”

Brienne felt her face light up in excitement. “I do, my Lord. Do you?”

Tormund nodded at the bard, and Brienne took her place beside Tormund, her left hand carefully held in his right. The music started and after a few introductory bars, they began to move. Step, then hop. Step, then hop. Another step, another hop, and then after the final step they hopped so they were facing each other. They dropped their hands, and his carefully circled her waist.

 _They’re so big they are nearly touching!_ thought Brienne as she rested her right hand on his shoulder. 

He grinned, and started the first turn. Brienne felt like she was flying. She could barely feel the pressure of his knee under her, and if he felt any strain at lifting her weight, it didn’t show in the handsome wildling’s face. They completed the four jumps, then returned to the four step-hops.

“You dance very well, Lord Giantsbane.”

“Tormund, please, Lady Tarth.”

“Brienne, then.”

Tormund bowed his head in acknowledgement as he positioned them for the next series of jumps. 

“I’ve had practice, particularly at this dance.”

“Common north of The Wall, is it?” she asked, and enjoyed the way his eyes lit up as he laughed.

“No, lass, we don’t dance like this north of The Wall. But a little bear told me you liked to dance, so I asked her to teach me. She thought this one might suit us both very well.”

Brienne looked over to Lyanna and the bard, and blinked in shock. They weren’t there!

Tormund followed her gaze and laughed, but kept the dance going. “Come now, lass. We don’t need music to dance, surely?”

He lifted her with an ease that took Brienne’s breath away. 

“And besides, with a beauty like you in my arms, I hear music anyway.”

“You must have hit your head,” she demurred. “Hearing things, thinking I’m beautiful…”

“But you are, my lady,” he said, lifting her once again as if she weighed nothing. “Beautiful on a horse, or when fighting. Seeing you with a sword in your hand makes me think of the old gods, come to walk the earth again. And you’re kind, and you’re smart. I’ve heard the comments you make when battles are being discussed, seen how King Crow listens to your council, and seen how you are with the younglings. You’re a marvel.”

She blinked at him, her legs somehow still dancing while her mind reeled.

“But...you haven’t seen me in a dress. You’ve only seen me like this! With mud in my teeth and calluses on my hands!”

Tormund shrugged, and lifted her high once again. “Like I said, beautiful. I don’t know what nonsense those southern lords have been filling your head with, Brienne of Tarth, but I think you’re the most splendid, most amazing, most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

The next time he lifted her high, when he gently lowered her, Brienne didn’t move back to start the next round of step-hops. Instead, she looked deep into his eyes, then moved into his space, pushing close against him. She moved her hand from his shoulder up to his hair, and pulled him in for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> If you were hoping this was the next Sansa/Tyrion story, I'm sorry! I'm working on it, I promise, and I plan to have the first chapter up as soon as I watch the final episode of season 8.
> 
> (That way I can borrow any good lines/plots).
> 
> I have a few Lyanna + Tormund stories to tell in the mean time, and I'm still hoping to do a brief story about Aly.


End file.
